


what's to stop me, pretty baby

by deadlybride



Series: fic for fire relief [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Handcuffs, M/M, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Post-Episode: s10e21 Dark Dynasty, Season/Series 10, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After Charlie dies in the pursuit of getting the mark off Dean's arm, Dean thinks that Sam needs to understand that actions have consequences.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: fic for fire relief [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926739
Comments: 25
Kudos: 76





	what's to stop me, pretty baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deeranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeranger/gifts).



> This fic was written for wildfire relief. Personalized fics are available on request; see [this post on my tumblr](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629171809812643840/fic-for-fire-relief) for more info.
> 
> Title is a slight misquote from 'What Is And What Should Never Be', by Led Zeppelin.

After Charlie’s pyre burns down to ash, Sam expects Dean to disappear, and he doesn’t. He stays, watching the last of the fire flicker. Sam doesn’t say anything. What can he say, after what Dean said to him? It’s Dean who picks up a shovel, first, and so Sam’s left to copy him, like they’ve done so many times before. With friends. With their dad. The fire’s burned down and now what’s left is the logistics of dealing with it. They turn over the earth, making sure the embers are smothered and put out. They drag over the remaining branches they’d already cut, and sift over shovelfuls of leaves, and Sam kneels for a second on the scraped up dirt and smooths it with his bare hands, thinking _Charlie_ in this distant way. She was their friend and she died. He sits back on his heels and looks at the grave, covered enough that it won’t be noticed unless someone looks closely, and thinks—that he’s sorry—

“Get up,” Dean says. It’s not said kindly.

Sam stands. Dean has both their shovels under his arm, his face—Sam looks away from his face, at the ground. There’s a gesture in the corner of his eye and Sam walks in front of him, his hands in his pockets but his skin not feeling nearly that casual. There’s a prickle down his spine, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He watches the path to make sure he doesn’t trip and tries to breathe evenly. Dean isn’t supposed to make him feel like this. It isn’t supposed to be like it was, half a year ago in the bunker, standing with his skull pressed back against the wall, waiting for a demon to come around any corner.

Dean’s not a demon. He’s not—okay, but he’s not a demon. Sam stands by the car when they reach it, looking out. Farmland, outside this random copse of trees, and there’s smoke in the air from the fire but it’s still clear, out here, and the warm of early summer. He gnaws the inside of his cheek, thinking still of—red hair, and how slight her weight had been when he picked her up, out of the bathtub—but Dean interrupts his thoughts again, like he can hear them and doesn’t want Sam to focus. “Get in the car,” he says, slamming the trunk closed on the shovels, and Sam considers the backseat but that’s where they’d laid her body, wrapped up carefully in its blanket, and the thought of sitting there where she’d been makes his stomach turn over, and so he takes the passenger seat. Where he belongs.

When Dean gets in he sits there, silent, for ten seconds that Sam counts in his head. When he puts the key in the ignition it’s a physical relief. They’re not talking, they’re driving. Sam gets another reprieve.

He needs to get to Cas, to Rowena. Charlie gave her life to get the codex to safety and they have to use it, now, no matter what Dean says.

Problem: Dean won’t leave.

They get to the bunker and Dean parks the Impala down in the garage, and when they get out Sam heads for the kitchen and Dean follows him, and so Sam makes coffee, aware of Dean’s eyes on him, and Dean takes a cup and heads for the library and Sam thinks, okay, and drinks his cup alone. When he gets up, heads for his room, Dean watches him all the way across the map room into the hall, and Sam thinks, okay, not the garage, and sits in his room and texts Cas and says _keep working, I’ll be there soon._

An hour. He tries to nap and can’t sleep. The bathtub, the dark room. The laptop shattered on the ground. He’d had to wash his hands off in the bathroom sink, after they wrapped her in the blanket, and the mirror had been shattered and he keeps thinking, of that. The broken mirror, his face splintered into so many pieces it wasn’t recognizable as a face. He gives up on sleeping. There’s silence, in the rest of the bunker. Dean’s bedroom door is closed. Sam takes a shower, fast and hot, just stripping away whatever last traces of blood and grave-dirt and smoke he can still feel on his skin, and he wraps a towel around his waist and walks quietly back down the hall, past Dean’s door, and thinks okay, now, he’ll be able to leave now, because he has to get to Rowena and to Cas and to tell them, to let them know, and he opens the door to his bedroom and Dean’s sitting there, on the chair at his desk, waiting for him.

“Jesus,” he says. He hesitates for half an instant before he closes the door. “You—” _scared me_ , is what he doesn’t say. The bedside lamp is on and Dean’s eyes look dark enough to be black, in the dim.

“All fresh?” Dean says. A little mocking. Sam thinks completely out of nowhere about when Dean was strapped down to that chair in the dungeon, ropes at his wrists and a needle in his arm, and even as restrained as he was Sam had had the sensation of looking directly into the teeth of a lion, with no glassed-in enclosure to save him.

Sam doesn’t answer. He goes to the little wardrobe, on the other side of the room, and pulls out boxer-briefs, an undershirt, jeans without bloodstains.

Dean says, “I didn’t want to believe it, you know? What Eldon kept saying. What he was saying with what he wasn’t saying. I thought, okay, whatever you’re feeling, it’s just because things are so weird right now, and it’ll get better. But it didn’t. Did it, Sammy.”

Sammy. That lion’s teeth, in his head, again. Sam drops the clean clothes on the bed and folds his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry,” he says. Dean’s head tilts. “About—that I didn’t come clean, about the book. I didn’t want to lie to you.”

“First time for everything,” Dean says, and Sam can’t help looking him in the face, stung. It doesn’t help that he knows Dean’s being goaded into viciousness, that he’s being forced to be cruel. He opens his mouth and closes it, and feels his jaw flex, and hauls back the first—second—third things he thinks to say, and it’s a long enough pause that Dean turns in his chair, sits forward. Ready. “Sam,” he says, and Sam drops his chin, takes a deep breath. “I told you that’s not what I wanted. You didn’t listen.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sam says, and it snaps more than he means it to. He takes another breath, trying to stay halfway calm. “I didn’t. Dean, I wish more than anything it hadn’t gone the way it had, but there’s no way, okay. I’m not letting you turn into that thing again, and I’m not letting you go. That’s just how it is.”

“Oh, that’s how it is,” Dean says. Very even. The hair on Sam’s neck stands up again, his scalp prickling.

“You love me,” Dean says, and stands up. “That’s what you call it?”

Sam backs up a step. “Dean,” he says, uncertain.

“You got her killed,” Dean says, and steps forward to make up the distance Sam put between them. “You’re gonna get more people killed, aren’t you. Because you love me, and you’re not willing to do what needs to be done, just to keep me around.”

Dean’s eyes are fixed on his. Sam hits the wall and the concrete cool of it is a shock against his skin. “It’s gonna be okay,” he says, and feels stupid for saying it. Dean takes another step forward and Sam lifts his hands, dumb placating gesture like Dean’s a civilian, a scared cop, needing to be talked down. “Dean, it's—I know, it’s bad, but we’re going to figure it out, okay, we’re working on—”

“For once,” Dean says, “in your fucking life—” and he steps closer— “—shut the fuck up, Sam.”

He grabs at Sam. Sam, shocked, doesn’t think to block it. Hard hand on his shoulder and Dean wrenches, pulls him forward, and Sam does react, then, too slow because even with all Dean’s violence and the way he smiles at violence Sam didn’t expect this, didn’t expect violence towards _him_ —

The fight’s fast. Brutal. Dean punches him, solid sock to the jaw, and Sam’s head snaps to the side but he grabs Dean’s shirt, hauls him in, punch to the gut that makes Dean grunt between them. The towel drops and Sam shoves off the wall, naked, dancing backwards—Dean throws a haymaker that Sam ducks, but the problem is that since he got the mark Dean’s been faster, stronger, nastier, and when Sam ducks Dean’s other fist is already rising and it snaps under Sam’s chin, rocks him back, and when he’s disoriented Dean snakes in fast and grabs him, disables his arm and shoves him, flips him around—shoves—Sam hits his knees and Dean’s there, on him, shoving him forward—getting his chest over the bed—and Sam starts to rise up but there’s a knife, at his throat, and he goes very very still and breathes shallow and Dean says, his hand planted in the middle of Sam’s bare back, “So, you love me. Let’s see how much.”

The knife scrapes against Sam’s throat. He glances down. It’s the demon blade, Sam’s blade, the one he always carries. He says, very carefully, “Dean,” and the knife presses in just a little, just enough that there’s a sting. “Dean, what are you doing?”

“Explaining something to you,” Dean says, and then he says, “Get up,” in exactly the same tone he had by Charlie’s pyre. Sam stands, slowly, aware the whole time of the knife biting into his skin. He considers shoving back, trying to shove Dean away, and discards it. The angle’s wrong, and there’s still a chance—the faintest, remotest chance—

Dean shoves him again, when he’s upright. He staggers and falls, half on one knee, on the bed. At the end of the blade he goes down, on his ass on the bed, and Dean pulls out handcuffs, from a back pocket. Like he’d planned this. He hands them to Sam, and Sam takes them, and with Dean watching him almost dispassionately he snaps one onto his own wrist, and when he’s about to do the other—"I’m not an idiot,“ Dean says, and wrenches his arm behind his back, and then Sam’s cuffed, on his own bed, watching the empty grey of the opposite wall, trying to stay calm. Failing, but trying.

Dean walks around in front of him. The knife is a very obvious presence, in his hand. "I don’t like this, Sam,” he says, and Sam says, “Well, you can stop anytime,” and Dean smiles at him and then backhands him, fast and almost casually, and Sam thinks _then_ of something that feels like a million years ago—when Dean had very first come back from hell, and that demon had been possessing that waitress, and Dean had looked at her in this awful calm way and slapped her across the face, like it was all she deserved, for being something so ugly and wrong.

His lip stings. That was hard enough that he might bleed. He licks the inside of his lip and sets his heels, goes to stand, and Dean grips his shoulder and shoves him again, all the weird new strength he has behind it, and Sam hits the mattress, overbalanced, and is aware then in a keen strange overwhelming way that he's—naked. He’s naked, and he’s on a bed. It doesn't—compute. For a second, it doesn’t. Dean grabs his ankles and with a surge of momentum straightens him out, spreads his legs on the bed, and Sam thinks—no—and twists, but his hands are trapped awkwardly at the small of his back, and Dean kneels up on the bed, between his legs, and leans his full weight with one hand against Sam’s wrists, and with the other hand he skims the knife up Sam’s shoulder and across his skin to his neck, again, and leans in and his—his hips, his crotch, they press up against Sam’s ass—and he says, quiet against Sam’s ear, “You’re not an idiot, either, Sammy.”

Sam heaves, even though it’s stupid with the knife right there. His hands flex, stupid too, and he gets a handful of Dean’s flannel shirt, the softness of it sweet in his grip. “Don’t,” he says, even if he still can't—it’s not—computing, it’s not making sense. Maybe he is an idiot.

Dean flips the knife around in his hand. The tip, under Sam’s chin, and his cheek smears against the blanket, his neck craning as instinct pushes his head away. The tip bites in anyway, and he feels the blood well, trickling down his skin. “Why,” Dean says. Not a question. His weight sways on the bed. There’s a sound. His belt, leather sliding and the buckle undone; the zip on his jeans, metal burr over the sound of Sam’s own panting breath. “I asked you not to do something and you did it. Look what happens, when we don’t listen to each other.”

Sam risks a look. He can see only a crazy slice of the room, over his own shoulder. Dean’s not looking at him but his knife-arm is steady, and just by shifting enough to look the blade’s pressed further in, deep enough that Sam’s really bleeding, now, and it hurts. Dean’s knees are on his thighs, his weight pressing in and making sure Sam can’t move more. There’s a—sound—and it takes a few seconds before Sam realizes that Dean’s jerking himself off. Dry skin on dry skin, rhythmic. Getting himself hard for it.

It computes, then. Sam grips at the tail-end he still has of Dean’s shirt, squirming. “Don’t,” he says again. “Dean. You’re gonna—you’re gonna hate yourself for this. You’re gonna want to die. Don’t, please, I'll—please, I’ll stop, we’ll find another way, I swear—okay? I swear, I promise.”

The knife moves. Dean’s weight shifts, where he’s pinning Sam’s legs. “You’re a liar, Sam,” he says. Neutral almost. “I can’t believe anything you promise.”

“It’s not going to work,” Sam says. It’s arriving in his head, at last. There’s a pressure, against his ass, and he flinches but keeps talking. “I—I get what you’re doing. It won’t work.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and then there’s the sound of him spitting. A touch—between Sam’s asscheeks—dragging, wet, and then pressing—in—and while Sam’s hips shove forward, trying to get away, Dean says, grimly, “Let’s see.”

It stings. Sam’s never—had anything, there. Spitting sound, again, and Dean's—finger? thumb?—comes back, pushing inside, and Sam—splits, spreads. Pressure and slickness, there’s no choice. He turns his head, pushes his face against the mattress, breathes his own hot reflected breath, and Dean’s thumb pushes deeper, fucks in and out on the bare hint of wet. Sam’s fucked girls in the ass, before. You need a lot more wet than this.

He steels himself. His brain knows how to compartmentalize. It’s going to hurt, he knows. In the cage Lucifer had fucked him this way, for torture and then just for fun, to pass the time. It hadn’t been real but it had hurt, and he knows from when Dean taught him about the difference between hell-hurt and real-hurt that the real-hurt was—specific. Present. Bodied, in a way that grounded Sam, all those years ago. This is going to be—the same.

Behind him, Dean’s thoughtful. “Never thought this would happen,” he says, kind of absent.

Sam’s eyes open, against the bed. What, he thinks, and then there’s another spitting noise and this wet sound, slick, and then there's—fat pressure, against his asshole, and he opens his mouth and tastes cotton and then—a shove—in—his hips flatten against the bed but it doesn’t matter, because Dean’s knees are spreading his thighs open, and there’s a dick inside, splitting him. Dean’s dick. Dean, pressing him wide, and Sam makes this weird noise that he hears only after he’s made it, and the knife drops to the bed beside him and Dean has two hands on him, then: one between his shoulders, keeping him flat, and one around Sam’s wrists, at the small of his back. Sam’s fingers flex and he’s lost the shirt but he gets Dean’s arm, one of them anyway, and he holds onto it as tight as he can when Dean’s dick hauls back and then fucks in again, and fucks in _again_ , barest lube from the spit between them but mainly dry, mainly just this thick awful friction that’s drying up Sam’s throat, making his eyes sting.

It feels big. He never thought much about Dean’s dick, before this, but it's—yeah. Big. He opens his mouth against the blanket and drags in air through his dry lips. Dean’s hips work, steady, shoving his dick in and in, and Sam holds onto Dean’s arm and takes it.

“You’re tight,” Dean says. Like it’s information. Good to know. The wet between them has almost dried up and Dean lifts up a little, hocks nastily, spits, and Sam feels it land between his split-open asscheeks and then run down, ticklish and hot. Dean rubs around where he’s fucking Sam with one thumb and it is—easier, then, his dick working easier, the hump of it fast and efficiently mean.

“I’m going to come inside you,” Dean says. Despite the fucking his voice is almost-calm. Just the rougher cast of his breath, puffing against Sam’s shoulder, to betray how he’s working. “You hear that? I’m gonna creampie you. Like the bitch you are. Then I’m gonna leave you here, and I’m going to go do my fucking job. I’m not lying. You hear me? I’m not lying, Sam.”

Sam’s fingers flex. Dean’s skin is hot. “I know,” he says, and he does. This is his punishment. This is what he gets, for lying, for getting Charlie killed. His asshole hurts incredibly and Dean’s not stopping—is speeding up, hitting his stride. There’s been no attempt at mind games—to get Sam off, to make him like it. This is exactly what it is: Dean raping him, making sure he knows it, making sure he learns the lesson Dean wants to teach.

Dean’s hips stutter and hold. He makes a low, deep noise, pressing into Sam’s ass, and Sam’s eyes open, fix on the wall. He can’t feel it. It seems like he should be able to feel it. The only sensation is when Dean pulls out, slow, and there’s a—trickle, after a few seconds. Sam feels loose, wet. His ass flexes, without him even trying—like taking a shit almost, pressing down—and there’s this gush, spilling down his taint to spill against his balls, and Dean makes another low sound, the hand between Sam’s shoulderblades disappearing and a touch dragging through the slick of Dean’s jizz, pressing—up, inside. Putting it back where Dean left it.

“There,” Dean says. Soft. “I kept my promise. Imagine that, Sammy.”

Sam lays there still, when Dean gets off of him. His ass throbs. There’s a sound—a zipper, a belt buckle.

“Don’t try it again,” Dean says. Sam turns his head, and Dean’s standing there fully dressed. Unrecognizable, with his eyes that hard. “You won’t win. You can’t get this thing off of me, Sam. You just have to live with it. If you don't—” He shrugs, and turns away. “Who knows,” he says. “Who else you might get killed.”

He leaves the door open when he goes. The hall-light spills in. There’s a distant noise—a door, slamming—and Sam takes in the quiet, hurting in a distinct and physical way, before he flexes his shoulder, brings up his knee. Twists, and pushes, and then sits up. One foot on the floor, the concrete cold. More of Dean’s semen spills out. The blanket under him is wet.

He licks his lips and shrugs his shoulders. He thinks one of them might have a torn tendon, from the fight, from how badly it hurts, but he doesn’t have time for that. It’s midday and Cas and Rowena have been waiting for him to show, waiting for the information Charlie earned them. They’re going to fix his brother. Sam’s determined. They’re going to fix Dean, rip the mark off his arm, and there’s nothing anyone is going to do—nothing anyone in the world, Dean included, can do—to stop it.

Sam’s hands flex, against his back. He stands. There’s a spare handcuff key, in his drawer. He steps forward, and starts to fix it.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/629645382228557824/in-support-of-wildfire-relief-deeranger-donated) \-- reblogs help more people see the relief campaign, so it's appreciated if you have a tumblr.
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts you have.


End file.
